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Dear Mira, this is wisdom's part:
This is that incense of the heart,
Whose fragrance reaches Heav'n.

Thus, peacefully, through life we'll go ;
Its checker'd paths of joy and wo,
With cautious steps we'll tread:
Quit its vain scenes without a tear,
Without a trouble or a fear,

And mingle with the dead :

While conscience, like a faithful friend,
Shall through the gloomy vale attend,
And cheer our dying breath;
Shall, when all other comforts cease,
Like a kind angel, whisper peace,
And smooth the bed of death,

SECTION 12.

Trust in Providence.

REGARD the world with cautious eye,
Nor raise your expectation high.
See that the balanc'd scales be such,
You neither fear nor hope too much.
Be still, nor anxious thoughts employ ;
Distrust imbitters present joy :

On God for all events depend;

You cannot want when God's your Friend. Weigh well your part, and do your best; Leave to your Maker all the rest.

The hand which form'd thee in the womb, Guides from the cradle to the tomb,

Can the fond mother slight her boy?
Can she forget her prattling joy?
Say then, shall Sov'reign love desert
The humble and the honest heart?
Heav'n may not grant thee all thy mind;
Yet say not thou that Heav'n's unkind,
God is alike both good and wise,

In what he grants, and what denies :
Perhaps, what Goodness gives to-day,
To-morrow, Goodness takes away.

You say that troubles intervene ;
That sorrows darken half the scene.
True! and the consequence you see,
This world was ne'er design'd for thee :
You're like a passenger below,
That stays, perhaps, a night or so;
But still his native country lies,
Beyond the bound'ries of the skies.

Of Heav'n ask virtue, wisdom, health; But never let thy pray'r be wealth. If food are thine, (though little gold,) And raiment to repel the cold; Such as may nature's wants suffice, Not what from pride and folly rise: If soft the motions of thy soul,

And a calm conscience crowns the whole Add but kind friends to all this store, You can't, in reason, wish for more,

Ꮇ Ꮞ

SECTION 13.

Power of religion.

OF Pleasure's gilded baits beware,
Nor venture near her fatal snare.

Religion painful truths may tell;
But mark her sacred lesson well :
With her, whoever lives at strife,
Loses his better friend for life;
With her, who lives in friendship's ties,
Finds all that's sought for by the wise.
To vice she leaves tumultuous joys;
Hers is the still and softer voice,

That whispers peace when storms invade,
And music through the midnight shade.
Adhere to her in ev'ry part,

Nor give her less than all your heart.
When troubles discompose your breast,
She'll enter there a cheerful guest:
Her converse shall your cares beguile;
The little world within shall smile.
And when the closing scenes prevail ;
When wealth, state, pleasure, all shall fail;
All that a foolish world admires,
Or passion craves, or pride inspires;
At that important hour of need,
Religion proves a friend indeed!
Her hands shall smooth thy dying bed;
Her arms sustain thy drooping head:
And when the painful struggle's o'er,
And that vain thing, the world, no more ;
She'll bear her fav'rite child away,

To rapture, and eternal day.

SECTION 14.

Thoughts on new-year's day; written in 1782, SEVENTEEN hundred eighty-one

Is now for ever pass'd:
Seventeen hundred eighty-two
Will fly away as fast.

But whether life's uncertain scene
Shall hold an equal pace;

Or whether death shall come between,
And end my mortal race;

Or whether sickness, pain, or health,
My future lot shall be ;

Or whether poverty or wealth;
Is all unknown to me,

One thing I know, that needful 'tis
To watch with careful eye;

Since ev'ry season spent amiss
Is register'd on high.

Too well I know what precious hours
My wayward passions waste;

And oh! I find my mortal pow'rs
To dust and darkness haste.

Earth rolls her rapid seasons round,
To meet her final fire;

But virtue is with glory crown'd,

Though suns and stars expire.

What awful thoughts! what truths sublime! What useful lessons these!

O! let me well improve my time!

O! let me die in peace!

SECTION 15.

Hymn on new-year's day,

LORD of my life, inspire my song!
To thee my noblest pow'rs belong.
The tribute of my heart receive;
'Tis the poor all I have to give.

My birth, my fortune, friends, and health,
My knowledge too, (superior wealth!)
Lord of my life, to thee I owe:

Teach me to practise what I know.

Ten thousand favours claim my song,
And each demands an angel's tongue;
Mercy sits smiling on the wings
Of ev'ry moment as it springs.

But Oh! with infinite surprise,
I see returning years arise:

When unimprov'd the former score,

Lord, wilt thou trust me still with more?

Thousands this period hop'd to see:

Denied to thousands, granted me!

Thousands! that weep, and wish, and pray, For those rich hours I throw away!

SECTION 16.

On vanity of dress and conversation,

Is it a thing of good report,

To squander life and time away?

To cut the hours of duty short,

While toys and follies waste the day?

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